The Distant Child
by TheCoatedShade
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is special, but everyone else in the orphanage just think he's a misbehaved little boy. At first he is happy about his powers, but are they there to serve a higher purpose? - This is a crossover fic with 2 other fandoms, but they will be revealed in the story.
1. Chapter 1

It was a dreary day, similar to many others seen from inside the small, dim room. The rain tapped on the long windows of the orphanage and ran down the panes in a wet blur, making it impossible to see what was outside, apart from dull coloured blobs.

The dinner bell rang, but like many times before, Sherlock ignored it. He sat in his room on the wooden floor, his long legs crossed. Mrs Kent had made him wear those horribly itchy grey trousers again, so he'd pulled them up to his knees so that the bottom half of his legs wouldn't feel the itch. The young boy held a toy in each hand, but he wasn't moving them, or playing; instead they stayed inanimate in his grasp, smiling up at him with fake happiness. He let out a long sigh when there was an impatient bang at his door.  
"Get your backside downstairs, Sherlock! Dinner is ready and we're not going to wait for you!"  
Sherlock groaned and stood up, leaving the toys on the cold floor. He turned the handle of the bedroom door and let himself out. Mrs Kent was glaring at him, her ginger hair flecked with grey hanging around her face in a wispy fashion.  
"Pull those trouser legs down, you look disgraceful! Hurry up!" he gave Sherlock a hard shove and he marched down the steps while unrolling his trouser legs.

As Sherlock entered the dining room all eyes were on him. The other children's eyes followed him as he found his seat and settled in it.  
"Now, everybody hold hands," Mrs Hudson spoke softly, and grasped the two nearest hands from the end of the table.  
At every meal the children had to say grace. Sherlock had tried his luck at staying silent at this time, but he was seen and received a slap on the side of the head by Mrs Kent, who said he was 'An ungrateful little brat'. So, Sherlock mumbled unenthusiastically in the chorus of words, before he stabbed his fork into a potato on his plate.

Sherlock's parents' death was a tragic affair. His mother had died in a house fire when Sherlock was just six months old, and his father had taken his own life weeks after. Unlike other children who'd been at the orphanage from a very young age, Sherlock knew this wasn't a proper life. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He'd been drawn an unfair card. He was different to the other children, and he was treated badly because of it; just because he didn't obey to the very last detail; just because he questioned orders, and he questioned religion. The orphans had been brought up to have Christian beliefs, but Sherlock didn't want to be a part of it. He'd removed the cross from his bedroom wall and stored it in the wardrobe. Luckily, Mrs Kent hadn't noticed yet, otherwise he'd have been given a beating.

Sherlock had been sent to bed at seven thirty, which to Sherlock, was an unreasonably early time for a ten year old. He lay on his side with his eyes wide open, staring into nothingness. He was angry. Every day was the same. He'd never felt true happiness, and he hated the other children whenever they smiled. The other children didn't like him either; they called him 'Freak' and 'Demon' among other names; all because one day when Andrew Dwight had annoyed him and Sherlock said he'd make him pay, Andrew fell to the ground and writhed in pain for no apparent reason. The other children were horrified at the time, but now they put on masks of dislike and teasing to hide the fact that they were scared of him.

Sherlock shivered in his bed. The heating was rarely used in the orphanage, and extra sheets were scarce. Sherlock climbed out of bed and stepped softly across the room. He pulled open his wardrobe and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He leant against the side wall of the wardrobe and closed his eyes. He felt instant heat and saw a glow from behind his eyelids; so he flicked them open and saw the ball of orange fire floating in front of him. It gave off a pleasant heat and Sherlock smiled to himself, thinking of the other children, cold in their beds. That wasn't the first time he'd used that little trick. Sherlock could make things happen, little things, that would make him just that little bit less miserable. When he first realised his powers he was shocked, but now they were a gift, and he could use them at will.

Through the few books Sherlock had read, he realised that the children with unfortunate lives seemed to always be the ones to have special powers, or the ones who found a magical realm. Never was it the spoilt child with both parents alive and breathing, with every toy he ever wanted in his room, and a belly full of sweets who found something truly amazing; it was the poor child, the miserable child, the parentless child, who did. Of course Sherlock would have preferred his family to be alive, and to have a proper home where he was treated well, but with where he was now, he thanked his mother and father, for the gift he had.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning bell rang, and Sherlock leapt out of the wardrobe and stripped off his pyjamas. He'd fallen asleep inside the wardrobe, and he had a sore neck from the awkward position he'd fallen asleep in. He pulled on his day clothes and rushed out of his room, down the hall and into the bathroom. The bathroom was a long room with pale green tiles. A long line of sinks were against the front wall, behind old, dirty mirrors. Several other boys were already there washing their faces. Sherlock approached a spare sink and turned the squeaky tap. He made a cup with his hands and splashed his face with water. He pat it dry with the hand towel hanging under the sink, then took a blue comb out of his trouser pocket and attempted to comb his hair. He never had much luck with this task, as his hair seemed to have a mind of its own. After several failed attempts to make it tidy, he returned the comb to his pocket and headed downstairs.

The dining room was slowly filling up. Sherlock found a place, an old china plate in front of him, and took two pieces of buttered toast from a serving plate in the middle. Sherlock nibbled on his toast while many of the other children loaded their plates with as much food as they could fit on there. Sherlock never ate much, but he never really knew why, as many nights he'd wake up from a hungry stomach.

He finished breakfast and waited for the others to do the same before Mrs Kent spoke in her booming voice.

"Now go and wash your hands before class, and be quick about it!" she called to the students.

Sherlock climbed back upstairs for his second trip to the boys' bathroom, and washed his hands quickly. He turned around to head out the door, but it was blocked by a line of four other boys; some older, some his age; with menacing looks upon their faces.

"Excuse me." Sherlock sighed in a bored tone.

"We're not going anywhere." The tallest boy at the front of the pack spoke.

"Suppose I could blast you away with my devilish powers?"

A scared look shadowed over the boys' faces, but the leader of the pack soon recovered.

"You wouldn't dare," he spat, sounding as if he was trying to convince himself that his statement was true.

"Oh, but I would, so I suggest you step aside."

"Tough talk for a scrawny prat like you. Someone's gotta teach you a lesson."

The tall boy took a swing and hit Sherlock in the jaw. Sherlock stepped back, clutching his face. Another boy stepped forward, and shoved Sherlock with such force that he fell to the ground, just before he received a hard kick in the ribs. The group was cheering at their apparent achievement, and more boys flooded in the bathroom, some carrying on with their day-to-day tasks, but many stopping to watch and cheer too.

Sherlock received several more blows, his thin body aching, when a firm voice was heard from beyond the bathroom door.

"What is all this racket about?" Mrs Hudson stepped inside, and saw Sherlock cowering on the floor. "Who is responsible for this?" She glared at the surrounding students. "Well?"

When none of the boys owned up, Mrs Hudson stepped forward and seized Sherlock's arm, pulling him up off the ground. She walked him out of the bathroom, all eyes following until they were around the corner.

"I think you ought to go to the nurse, dear; and don't worry, I'll find out who did it, unless you want to tell me?"

Sherlock stared at her blankly.

"Alright, I understand. Just go to the nurse; you are excused from classes today."

Sherlock looked wide-eyed at Mrs Hudson before heading to the nurse's room. He'd never really had much interaction with Mrs Hudson, but she seemed a lot nicer than Mrs Kent.

He knocked on the nurse's door, and he was met by the stern looking woman shortly after.

"Yes?" she looked down at the boy in front of her.

"Mrs Hudson told me to come here."

The nurse looked the boy up and down. "So what happened to you, then?"

"Well, um… I was… beat up by the other boys."

The nurse sighed and dragged him inside.

Since there wasn't really anything the nurse could do, Sherlock was instructed to rest for the remainder of the day, and was sent back to his room. He listened as the bells signalling the end of each lesson went off, and heard the shuffling of students going from class to class. Finally the school day ended, and it was free time for the children. Sherlock heard a few whispered conversations outside his door, but luckily no one was game enough to disturb him.

Time was moving very slowly, and Sherlock tried many things to keep him occupied. He'd begun whistling to try to escape his boredom, when he heard the sound of the front door shut. it was easy to hear is it was a very heavy door, but the thing that intrigued Sherlock was why did he hear it now? Who was there? He heard voices from downstairs, so he got up off his bed and opened his bedroom door. He poked his head out and listened.

"You'll be staying here for a few days. Maybe you'll make friends with some of the children." He heard Mrs Hudson speak.

Sherlock walked up to the railing and looked down. Mrs Hudson was by the door with a boy who Sherlock had never seen before. He looked about four years older than him, and was wearing a teal jumper. He had sandy hair that sat neatly on his round head. Just as he was investigating this newcomer, Mrs Hudson spotted him, and then bent down to whisper something in the boy's ear. Sherlock went back into his room, leaving the door open. He sat on the edge of his bed, wondering who this new person was. He couldn't be an orphan who was going to be admitted, since he was only staying for a few days…

Sherlock was in deep thought when there was a knock at the door. Sherlock whipped his head around and look towards the door way. It was the sandy-haired boy.

"Hello," he said with a slight smile.

Sherlock gazed up at him, then cleared his throat. "Um, yes, hello." He replied rather lamely.

"What's your name?" the boy asked.

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock? I've never heard that name before."

"My mother made it up. My brother's name is weirder though; his name is Mycroft."

The sandy-haired boy laughed softly. "Well my name's John; nothing special about it. Pleased to meet you."

John extended a hand, and Sherlock shook it.

"So," John sat on the edge of the bed, next to Sherlock. "How long have you been here?"

"Since I was a baby."

"Wow, that must be tough. I suppose you don't remember your parents then?"

"No, I don't." There was an awkward silence before Sherlock spoke again. "Why are you here? Do you know Mrs Hudson?"

"She's my great aunt. My mum and dad had to go away for a while, so I'm staying here."

"Well, you seem a lot nicer than the other kids here, so you're welcome to stay." Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"Oh really? Well thank you for your permission, Sherlock." John grinned.

The edges of Sherlock's mouth twitched slightly.

"I heard you went to see the nurse today, Sherlock. What happened?"

"The other boys don't like me." Sherlock said simply.

"Did they hurt you?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Well, listen here, Sherlock; if they do it again, tell them they'll have me to answer to."

Sherlock looked up at his companions face. It was a very kind face, with blue eyes. "In that case, I think we can be friends."


End file.
